e of his privileges as an
invalid, had tormented her more and more every day by his unreasonable
caprices and his outbursts of ill temper. In short, her visit to him had
not proved a success. He found that she was too simple and too serious
to cheer him; and he had preferred, of late, the society of Rose, the
fair-haired young girl, with the innocent look, who amused him. So that
when his sister told him that their uncle had sent for her, and that she
was going away, he gave his approval at once, and although he asked her
to return as soon as she should have settled her affairs at home, he did
so only with the desire of showing himself amiable, and he did not press
the invitation.

Clotilde spent the afternoon in packing her trunks. In the feverish
excitement of so sudden a decision she had thought of nothing but the
joy of her return. But after the hurry of dinner was over, after she had
said good-by to her brother, after the interminable drive in a hackney
coach along the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne to the Lyons railway
station, when she found herself in the ladies' compartment, starting
on the long journey on a cold and rainy November night, already rolling
away from Paris, her excitement began to abate, and reflections forced
their way into her mind and began to trouble her. Why this brief and
urgent despatch: "I await you; start this evening." Doubtless it was the
answer to her letter; but she knew how greatly Pascal had desired that
she should remain in Paris, where he thought she was happy, and she was
astonished at his hasty summons. She had not expected a despatch, but
a letter, arranging for her return a few weeks later. There must be
something else, then; perhaps he was ill and felt a desire, a longing to
see her again at once. And from this time forward this fear seized her
with the force of a presentiment, and grew stronger and stronger, until
it soon took complete possession of her.

All night long the rain beat furiously against the windows of the train
while they were crossing the plains of Burgundy, and did not cease until
they reached Macon. When they had passed Lyons the day broke. Clotilde
had Pascal's letters with her, and she had waited impatiently for the
daylight that she might read again carefully these letters, the
writing of which had seemed changed to her. And noticing the unsteady
characters, the breaks in the words, she felt a chill at her heart. He
was ill, very ill--she had become cer